


Shall We Dance?

by Darksidekelz



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 23:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13201299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksidekelz/pseuds/Darksidekelz
Summary: An otherwise boring night for First Aid is saved when Vortex drops in on the party.





	Shall We Dance?

**Author's Note:**

> For pollution-of-subterranean-waters on tumblr for the Secret Solenoid. Went with the Vortex/First Aid - Dancing. I hope it's alright.

It had been a year, now, since Cybertron last witnessed bloodshed.  After eons of fighting, anyone would be ready to call it quits, even Galvatron, it seemed.  In the aftermath of the hate plague, and the subsequent return of Optimus Prime, a peace treaty had been hastily drafted, and much to the surprise of everyone involved, it had been obeyed.  There had been some near misses, of course, and the more paranoid amongst the Autobots were just waiting for the floor to fall through.  But that day had yet to come, and as far as First Aid was concerned, it was a milestone worth celebrating.  

That was why he was here, now, working security/emergency personnel at the Festival of Peace Eternal.  He’d volunteered for the position, with enthusiasm, no less.  Who wouldn’t gladly give up an evening to honor the end of the fighting?  There were to be kiosks, featuring ores and fuels from Cybertron, Earth, and the many worlds in between.  There were to be competitions, games, dancing, and, on the more somber side of events, the grand opening of a war museum, so that the horrors of the last four million years may never die.  First Aid had been looking forward to the event for weeks now.

Three hours into the night, however, he was beginning to think that volunteering to be on staff maybe hadn’t been his best idea.  

The festival itself was alright, the food was good, the games were fun, the museum, informative, but First Aid didn’t get to enjoy any of those.  Instead, he’d been assigned to the dance hall - loosely based on some Earth custom that the humans called ‘prom’ (thank you Goldbug).  First Aid failed to see the appeal.  It was just a handful of socially awkward mechs attempting to dance to human music, while everybody with any sense of dignity stood around the sidelines, trying not to look uncomfortable.  According to Goldbug, that meant they were doing it right.  According to First Aid, it was a painful waste of time.

“Primus, could this be any more boring?” Blades groaned, slumping into a chair by the engex kegs.  As eager as First Aid had been to celebrate, he hadn’t been so keen on coming alone.  And of course, of his teammates, Blades was the easiest to coax into going along with a plan like this.  Both of them were regretting the chain of events that had brought them here now, however.

“It’s good that it’s boring,” First Aid said, more to convince himself than his teammate.  “That’s the whole point of this, right?”

“I thought the point was to celebrate?” Blades scoffed, eyeballing the dance floor, where a very drunk Tracks was attempting to breakdance.   _ Attempting _ .  “Does that look like celebrating to you?”

First Aid winced.  “To be honest, it looks like three hours’ invasive surgery and a lecture about the structural integrity of load-bearing joints.”  With a shake of his head, he turned his back on the painful display.  Probably not the best decision for the on-call medic, but he had no intention of playing babysitter to a bunch of drunks.  “But you’ve missed my point.”

“And what’s your point – ah, no!  Now Trailbreaker’s getting in on it.  Primus, he’s gonna feel that one in the morning!  Where’s Groove though?  I bet he could wipe the floor with ‘em.  That legendary Two-Wheeler flexibility.  I’m jealous – Rotaries ain’t built to move like that.”

First Aid rolled his eyes, very pointedly not looking at the scene Blades described.  “My  _ point _ is, that boring is a good thing, and frankly, I think it’s something we all could use a little more of.”

“Please, there’s a difference between peaceful boring, and lethal boring,” Blades shot back, leaning on the engex table.”

“Ah ah!  Up!  Folks eat off that thing.  They don’t need your grimy aft mucking up their refreshments.”

Blades shook his head and stood back up, but his eyes lingered on the primary engex keg, fed by an even larger cannister, and connected by two tubes.  “What is this even?”

“What, the engex?  I think it’s Cascadia 05 – um, just Earth stuff.  From Autobot City.”

“Aw man, that’s weak,” Blades groaned.  “The Cybertron-made stuff is way better.”  He perked up, a devious look in his optic.  “Have you tried Nightmare Fuel?”

First Aid shuddered.  It was a half-refined engex from Cybertron’s golden age – made for Delta Miners and Heavy Warframes – not the sort of thing that Should be getting anywhere near his mischievous companion, or himself for that matter.  “I haven’t, and you shouldn’t either.  Stuff like that is not for lightweights.”

Blades shrugged.  “I was just thinkin’, a little less refinery in the engex could liven up the party a bit – I mean, you really oughta turn around and see what Inferno and Red Alert are doing.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Your loss.”  With a defiant smirk, Blades leaned back on the table, allowing his rotors to brush dangerously against the engex keg.  “I was just thinking – Whirl says that he’s gotten his claws on some of the stuff and, well, since  _ we’re _ on guard duty, there’s no one really stopping us from –“

“And I think I’m gonna cut you off right there,” First Aid snapped, waving a dismissive hand in front of his companion.  “If Whirl came up with it, then it is, by definition, a bad idea.”

Blades shook his head with an irritated frown.  “First me, then Whirl – whatcha got against Copters, buddy?”

First Aid stiffened; Blades was goading him.  First Aid would have liked to think himself above petty Functionism, but even he had to admit that Rotaries could be a handful.  “N-nothing.  I have  _ nothing _ against Copters,” he said, more forcefully than he’d intended.  “I do, however, have a beef with risky and irresponsible behavior, and when it comes to that, you and Whirl both are . . .”  First Aid trailed off, his optics fixed on the door.

“Whirl and I are what?” Blades pressed, prodding at First Aid’s chassis with a sharp finger.  “Come on, I wanna hear.”

First Aid only vaguely registered the taunt.  There was something far more important occupying his thoughts at the moment.  “Decepticons . . .”

“What?!”  Blades sounded legitimately offended, enough so to reclaim First Aid’s attention.  “You think we’re – look buddy, just because we’re what the humans like to call ‘chaotic good’ – well, maybe ‘neutral’ in Whirl’s case, doesn’t mean we’re – what are you doing?”

First Aid was in no mood to argue.  Instead, he grabbed Blades’s arm and dragged him from the table, turning him to face the door and the handful of Decepticons (technically ex-Decepticons) that had just walked through it. 

The relative shelter of working on an Earth-based rescue team had limited First Aid’s exposure to the Decepticons; he didn’t recognize every bot that entered the hall, but he recognized enough.  Perpetual Decepticon getaway-shuttle, Astrotrain, a pair of Soundwave’s pint-sized little men, and fellow Combiners, Brawl and Vortex, among others.  A shiver ran up First Aid’s spinal strut at the sight of them all.  War or no war, these were troublemakers, and now they were here, and very much First Aid’s problem.

First Aid wasn’t the only one to notice either.  The entire room fell silent at the unexpected arrival.  Nobody moved to greet the Decepticons, nobody wanted to deal with them, and  _ everybody _ wanted them to frag right back off to where they came from.

“Who invited  _ these _ jokers?” Blades groaned, albeit quietly.

Though he agreed with the sentiment, First Aid refused to let his inherent disgust rule him.  “It’s a public event; nobody had to invite them.  I’m – um, surprised they showed up though.”

“Yeah?  Well, how ‘bout we ask ‘em to leave – real nice like?”  Blades was already marching forward, fists clenched and rotors clattering in what was a not-so-subtle threat gesture.  Somehow, First Aid didn’t see this situation ending well.  Brawl alone looked big and mean enough to crush Blades’s helm between his fingers.  First Aid had to resolve the situation, and he had to do so fast. 

He scurried ahead of Blades, placing himself between his temperamental companion and certain death.  “They have every right to be here,” he hissed.  “That’s the entire point of this event.  The war is over; to treat the Decepticons unfairly would defeat the purpose.” 

Blades stopped, but his gaze remained locked on the slowly-dispersing Decpeticons, as though daring them to try anything untoward.

“Come on, Blades,” First Aid tried.  “Let’s get back to guarding the engex.”

But Blades wasn’t having it.  “You’re too nice for your own good, Aid.  You know that?”

“ _ Pragmatic _ ,” First Aid insisted, playing the insult off as a joke.  The last thing they needed right now was infighting.  “The word you’re looking for is pragmatic.”

“Yeah?  Well, if they hurt anyone, it’s gonna be your fault,” he snapped, before stalking off, completely forsaking his post in the process.  First Aid would have protested, but honestly, he would rather Blades go complain at Streetwise for awhile, than be stuck responsible for a potential loose cannon.  The situation was tense as it was without having to play babysitter.

Alone and grumpy, First Aid returned to the engex table, while around him, the festivities cautiously kicked back up.  Gone was the drunken foolery of Tracks and Trailbreaker on the dance floor.  Inferno was glaring, Red Alert had disappeared altogether.  By this point, it seemed that the only bots having even a modicum of fun were the Decepticons themselves. 

It was easy to forget just how much of a threat these guys had been only a year ago – how many nightmares First Aid had woken from – of gored patients he just couldn’t save, of friends and teammates suffering brutal deaths at the hands of these monsters.  And yet, here those very same monsters were, drinking and smiling and having a good time, oblivious to the spiteful glares shot their way.  Despite his earlier words, First Aid’s glare could be counted amongst the suspicious.

How could it not be, when a mech like Vortex was wandering the perimeter of the room, getting far too up close and personal with everyone he met – lingering touches, intimate whispers, fluttering rotors that anyone with a passing familiarity of Rotary anatomy would recognize as an invitation.  Whether or not his targets recognized the flirtation was up for debate, but not one mech came out of a conversation with this guy unscathed.  He left many stiff shoulders, clenched fists, and flushed faces in his wake.

First Aid wasn’t sure how concerned to be.  On the one hand, Rotaries had a reputation for chaos and mischief, and his own experiences with Blades and Whirl hadn’t done anything to dismiss it.  Could have been that Vortex was simply angling for an amusing reaction before moving on.  But First Aid likewise couldn’t look past the exact role that the mech had held for the Decepticons.  Who wouldn’t be afraid of being hit on by head interrogator?  Even if the head interrogator happened to be a little handsome, with an edgy-yet-effective paintjob, an air of cool mystery hidden behind a mask and visor, a devil-may-care attitude, and of course, those mesmerizing spinning blades affixed to his back . . .

No.  First Aid definitely didn’t want that vile Decepticon monster – worst of the worst, even - to come over here and whisper sweet nothings into  _ his _ audial receptor.  That would have been ridiculous!

Shaking his head to dismiss the thought, First Aid shifted his attention, doing everything in his power to focus on Decepticons who weren’t handsome, handsy Helicopters.

There were Decepticons on the dancefloor, of course, lumbering about awkwardly to the Earth-made music.  Then again, by this point, even the scant Autobots remaining on the floor were no longer keeping time, too busy warily watching their long-time enemies.  Elsewhere, he saw a handful of shady Warmechs chatting about something or other with shifty stares, a pair of drunk Minicons making a game of tripping bigger bots (a dangerous game indeed), and one very enthusiastic Tank who was animatedly chatting up a pair of Aerialbots.  First Aid couldn’t hear what they were talking about, but Fireflight and Skydive looked scared out of their minds, and with the way Brawl was simultaneously attempting to sway to the unfamiliar music?  This was a disaster waiting to happen – a disaster that a good security guard would not allow to escalate.

On the other hand, First Aid  _ really _ didn’t want to talk to Brawl.  Besides, he wasn’t about to leave the engex table unguarded when there were ruffians about.  That would be madness –

“Hey.”

First Aid did not jerk several feet into the air, and he  _ definitely _ didn’t let out an unflattering shriek at the same time.  “V-Vortex!” he choked out, surprised.  Not flustered.  “What brings you over here to my table that I am protecting?”

Vortex snorted.  “They put  _ you _ on guard duty?”

Thankfully, indignation was just the thing First Aid needed to wash away the giddiness that was pooling in his tanks.  “I’ll have you know I’m a perfectly adequate security guard.  Just because I’m a pacifist, doesn’t mean I can’t do my job.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Vortex agreed, not convincing in the least.  “And with the sort of bots in attendance, any sort of altercation could get ugly fast.  Limbs flying, energon spilling . . . can’t say I envy your position.”

First Aid frowned behind his mask.  When he’d volunteered to work security for this event, he’d been expecting petty shenanigans from Whirl, maybe a drunken argument or two – nothing he couldn’t handle.  He certainly was not up for putting down a potentially-armed riot.  He was starting to feel a little sick.

“Heheh, I’m just joking with you.”  Vortex rested what, in any other situation, would have been a comforting hand on First Aid’s shoulder.  Nervous optics shot to it, waiting for it to try something untoward.  Now that he was here, he was finding that being on the receiving end of Vortex’s attention was not quite so invigorating as he’d imagined.  “I just saw you drooling over me, and thought I’d drop by and say ‘hi.’”

“I was not drooling!” First Aid snapped, shrugging off the hand.

“No?” said Vortex, without missing a beat.  “Spying then.  And also blushing.”

“I wasn’t –“

“You  _ are _ ,” Vortex laughed.  The soft shudder drew attention to his still-twitching rotors.  Well, wasn’t that interesting?  

“Maybe I am,” First Aid admitted, willing to take the small loss.  “But what about you?  That little ‘come hither’ – thing you’re doing right now,” he waved a vague hand in the direction of Vortex’s rotors, just in case it wasn’t clear.  “Seems to me that  _ you’re _ the one who’s flustered.”

As if to spite him, Vortex allowed the whole array to spin a full three hundred sixty degrees.  “Yup, you caught me.  I got it bad for you,” he snickered, distressingly unmoved.  In retrospect, First Aid probably shouldn’t have tried to turn the interrogator’s tricks against him.  “But how could I not?”  He swung in closer, trailing his sharp digits up the side of First Aid’s mask, ghosting at the line between his face and helm.  “You’re just too damn adorable – I could eat you up.”

Knowing Vortex, he probably meant that literally, but First Aid was determined to not let petty threats get to him.  He’d survived encounters with the Combaticons before; he could do it again.  Besides, through the gestalt bond, he could feel each of his teammates nearby.  If worse came to worst, he could form Defensor.  With only Brawl present, Vortex couldn’t do the same.  First Aid was safe.  Everything was fine.

“So, wanna dance?”

First Aid sputtered.  “W-what?”

Vortex chuckled, releasing his grip on First Aid’s face.  “I just mean, since you were so keen to point out this whole  _ mutual attraction _ thing we got going on, and since this is a party, and since you seem a little bored, just sitting here by the refreshments table, I thought maybe we could, y’know . . .”  He gave a little spin to the rhythm of the music.  “Rock our bodies right, or whatever it is the squishies call it.”

It was entirely inappropriate, but First Aid couldn’t stave off the giggle.  “Where did you pick up a phrase like that?”

If First Aid thought Vortex would be upset by the laughter, he was very wrong.  Instead, red optics lit up behind their visor, happy as could be.  “I’ve been studying squishy culture.  Now, let’s shake our groove thang, yeah?”

This time, First Aid cackled, loud enough to turn a few heads.  “Primus, you sound ridiculous!”

“Mmm?”  If not for the mask, First Aid was certain he’d see a mischievous smirk on those mysterious lips.  “Come on, stop making fun of me.  I wanna boogie.”  Vortex’s hand closed around First Aid’s, and for one delightful second, the pair very nearly made it to the dance floor.  Then First Aid remembered himself.

“I’m working – guarding the refreshment table.  I’d like to think I have enough professional integrity to not go cavorting off with the first mech who asks, at least not while on duty.  Besides,” he added, slipping his hand from Vortex’s grip, and hiding it in the safety of his now-folded arms, “I somehow sense an ulterior motive at play here.”

Vortex replied with a dramatic gasp.  “Why – I would  _ never _ !  How could you say such a thing?”

_ Because you’re a murderer, a monster, a complete and utter - _  “Stop playing coy,” First Aid frowned behind his own mask.  “There’s no way it’s only a dance you want.”

“What do you mean?” Vortex asked innocently, cocking his head.  “Are you questioning  _ my _ integrity?”

“A bit.”  It was a risky thing to say, but Vortex didn’t seem the type to take offense.  And indeed, after a moment’s pause, he was laughing again.

“Aww, Aidy –“

“That’s a terrible nickn –“

“What do I gotta do to get you to dance with me?”  Seamlessly, he slid to his knees, in a way that had First Aid’s medic coding cringing.  “Do I gotta get on my knees and beg?  ‘Cause I ain’t too proud to beg, y’know.”

First Aid rolled his eyes.  “Why do you want this so much?” he sighed.  “You know I was watching you earlier, so you have to know that I saw you flirting with everyone in your path.  What makes  _ me  _ different?”

“Hm?  Oh that’s easy!  Have you  _ seen _ you?”

“The truth please,” First Aid shot back, flatly.

All he got for his troubles was another laugh, but at least Vortex found it in himself to crawl back to his feet.  “Who says I’m lying?  You’re an adorable little medic with them big, blue optics –“

“It’s a visor.  Pit, it’s not like my face is all that different from yours, as far as either of us know.”

“I know!  It’s a good look.  Very mysterious,” Vortex chirped.  “But that doesn’t stop you from looking downright adorable, as best I can see.  And I dig the medic thing – they got them hands, yeah?  Like, who the pit wouldn’t wanna get down and dirty with a medic?”

“I thought you only wanted to dance,” First Aid retorted, trying very hard not to blush.

“What, are those different things?”

First Aid nearly choked.  Was this mech serious?

“Nah, I’m just playing you.  But that was adorable too – see?  And the pacifist thing?  Very cute.”

“Not demeaning at all,” First Aid groaned.

“Oh no, it’s totally meant to be demeaning.  But also, very attractive.”  Vortex gave his rotors a quick flutter, his optics twinkling in humor.  “Come on, Aid.  We don’t gotta do more than dance, but I mean – it hurts that you doubt that I’d find you attractive enough to bother with.”

Not the pity card.  He was  _ not _ going to fall for the pity card.  “I’m  _ working _ ,” he tried once more, but it was a miserable effort.  Filthy liar and supreme manipulator, Vortex may have been, but no one could deny that his stream of compliments were working on poor, romantic First Aid.  He was still relatively young, had been constructed during the war, and had lived most of his life surrounded only by members of his gestalt.  Never before had he felt wanted by an outsider, and this obnoxious Rotary was quite good at making him feel so.  Professional integrity be damned, First Aid wanted to dance.

“And you can get back to work when we’re done.  Won’t take more than a few minutes,” Vortex pressed, leaning in close, letting his hands rest on the cage of First Aid’s folded arms.  “Come on – I promise it’ll be fun!”

“If I dance with you, will you leave me alone?”  It was a bluff, but it got him what he wanted.  With an enthusiastic nod of his head, Vortex replied with an,

“Absolutely!”

It only took seconds for Vortex to find both of First Aid’s hands, and to lead him out onto the barren dance floor.  Already, he regretted letting himself be talked into this.  First Aid never had liked being the center of attention, and here he was, in the middle of the ballroom, dancing with a sadistic creep – what would everyone say afterwards?

“Hey, don’t worry about all of them, yeah?” Vortex said, his voice surprisingly soothing.  “Just follow my lead.  Left foot, right foot, faster – good!”

First Aid’s steps were clumsy, nervous.  He tripped over his own feet, misheard directions, pressed too close, strayed too far – this was terrible.  At this rate, he’d be the laughingstock of the city come tomorrow.  Unconsciously, he buried his face in Vortex’s chest, desperate to hide himself away.  It took a few good moments for him to realize that Vortex had stopped moving.

“Hm?  Why did we stop?” First Aid mumbled.  It was a miracle Vortex heard him with his mouth so obscured.  “Am I that bad?”

“What?  Nah.  I just – ah, I don’t know this . . . music.  It’s kinda hard to dance to.”  He swayed a little, bringing First Aid with him, but the motions were awkward.  “I just can’t seem to find the beat.  Um . . .”  He tried again, pulling away just enough for First Aid to see his clumsy movements.  Once mortification relinquished its hold and the music finally hit him, First Aid began to realize that this was what Vortex had been doing the entire time.  Pit,  _ all _ of the Decepticons had been struggling to dance to the music all night.

“Thought you said you’d been studying up on human culture?” First Aid taunted.  “It’s just a human song.  Can’t be that hard to figure it out.”

“Says the sparkling that was born on Earth.  Not all of us find this new-fangled –  _ non- _ music easy to shake shake shake our booties to.”

“Do I need to request that Blaster put on the disco for you?  Seems like you’re in a disco mood tonight.”

Much to First Aid’s surprise, Vortex cocked his head, for once, unable to offer a witty retort.  “Disco?”  First Aid would deny with all of his spark that, without ten layers of snark to hide behind, Vortex was kind of adorable himself.

_ For a murderer, anyway. _

“Here,” he said, offering a hand, his courage bolstered by Vortex’s failure.  You follow  _ me _ this time.  Think I could teach you a thing or two.”

Red optics lit up, and Vortex allowed himself to be led, swaying left and right – a second behind First Aid, a half-second, in sync.  He was a quick learner at least, but as his confidence grew, so too did his boldness.  He stepped closer, pressed in – as close as two relatively-flat frames could get.  Unadorned arms flung themselves over First Aid’s shoulders, and adventurous fingers languidly explored the gaps in his plating.  It was nice, comfortable, romantic, even.

_ Murderer!  This is a murderer, First Aid!  Primus, don’t spend so much time lost in those puppy dog eyes that you forget. _

First Aid pulled away, dislodging himself from Vortex’s grasp, planting himself at arm’s length.

“Hmm?  I do something wrong?” Vortex chimed, with such innocence, he had to have been faking it.  Mech knew exactly what he did.

“Yes!” First Aid couldn’t help but reply.  Of course, now he needed to find some reasoning behind his sudden disgust, something that wouldn’t offend, and the first excuse to come to mind wasn’t exactly the most solid.  “This event is like, themed after some of the dances we went to back on Earth,” he stammered.  There was no way Vortex missed just how very flustered he was.  “And uh, I remember – there was like, this saying, no, this  _ rule _ .  Heard the chaperones use it a lot when dancers were getting too . . . untoward.”

“Aww, you don’t think I’m toward?”

Somehow, the flippant comment took the edge off of his racing spark.  If Vortex wasn’t going to take this seriously, then why should First Aid?  “Gotta leave room for the Lord,” First Aid explained, completely deadpan.  The change in demeanor earned him a double-take from his partner.

“The . . . Lord?”

Admittedly, he didn’t really know what it meant either.  “Y-yeah.”  But he could make something up.  “Just like – y’know how big Megatron is, right?”

Vortex cocked an optic ridge.  “You want me to leave room for Lord Megatron between us?  Never knew you were so kinky.”

First Aid didn’t have time to respond.  The next thing he knew, the world was upside down – Vortex had pulled him into a hasty dip, low enough that the crest of his helm brushed the ground.  “Vortex!  What are you –”

Vortex righted him, and spun him in, closer than before, wrapping his free arm around First Aid’s waist – bold, but not entirely unwanted.  “Human dancing is too complicated,” he laughed, using his grip on First Aid’s hand to spin him out, then back in, like a confused yoyo.  “Think I’ll just wing it – rotor it?” he corrected with a laugh.

One more time, he spun First Aid around, before pulling him into a brisk trot, to a beat that only Vortex could hear.  First Aid was left scrambling to keep up.  “You could follow the music, at least,” he muttered, struggling not to trip over Vortex’s feet, which had quite suddenly found themselves interlaced with his own.

“I could,” Vortex agreed, “but this is more fun.”  The following chain of events flew right by First Aid’s perception.  One moment, he was face-to-face with his infuriating dance partner, the next Vortex had somehow maneuvered poor First Aid behind his back, without missing a beat, no less.  “This part’s easier if both bots know it, so bear with me.  I don’t think the choreographer had rotors in mind when he wrote this either.”

First Aid’s feet left the ground, though the hold Vortex had on him wasn’t incredibly stable.  The rotor array spun, until Vortex was able to maneuver First Aid into an unsteady seat atop his rotor hub. 

“Brace yourself, baby face.”  Gears shifted, and First Aid followed, as Vortex half-transformed himself, letting a now flailing Ambulance roll over his suddenly much bigger frame, before landing face-to-face once more, both in bot mode.  It was only then that Vortex’s concentration faltered.

“Oh wow, I can’t believe that worked!  First time I’ve been able to pull it off with me leading.”

First Aid frowned.  There was a method to Vortex’s actions – ‘choreography,’ he’d said.  He wasn’t just randomly meandering about; this was an actual dance, a  _ Cybertronian _ dance.

“Was that . . . the Iacon Gavotte?” First Aid ventured, still unsteady on his feet.

“Oh, you know it?” Vortex chuckled back, pulling First Aid in close once more, picking up the dance right where he’d left off.

“I’m more surprised  _ you _ know it,” First Aid shot back.  He’d read a few tablets on Golden Age Cybertron, and had watched Streetwise and Groove practice a few of the dances for themselves.  He never thought he’d be joining them in their fascination.

Vortex laughed, nearly stepping on First Aid’s foot in his mirth, though he recovered quickly.  “I’m a Golden Age bot, y’know.”

“Yeah,” First Aid nodded.  “You were in the Detention Center for most of the war, right?”  He winced as blunt fingers sharpened, growing tense against his frame.  That had definitely been the wrong thing to say.

The moment passed quickly, and soon enough, the pair was back to dancing, as though the unwanted memory of past traumas had never happened.  “Onslaught was a pretty successful, ah,  _ businessmech _ .” 

_ Not exactly on the level, was he? _

“And as one of his inner circle,” Vortex continued, “sometimes I had to present myself at his hoity toity functions.  And that,” he gave First Aid another spin, pulling into a shallow dip, “is how a common criminal like me learned to dance like this.”  He brought First Aid back to his feet, but this time, he didn’t stay close.  Instead, he scurried back to arm’s length, resting his hands on either of First Aid’s shoulders, and began to sway back and forth, in time to the music once again.  “Though we can try it your way too.  This enough room?”

At first, First Aid was flabbergasted.  Everything had happened so fast – the dancing, a quick insight into a long lost culture, the culture that should have been First Aids; the confession, hints of Vortex’s suspect past; and now they were back to  _ this _ , waddling like a couple of stiff, frigid penguins.  It all felt somehow wrong.

It was First Aid to move this time, resting a hand on Vortex’s waist, and dragging him back in, every bit as close as he’d been before.  It may have been a little on the obscene side, but this was a celebration, and he was on the dance floor – he didn’t need to think about the future out here.  All that mattered was the thrill of the moment, the joy of existing, the pliant frame of the mech in front of him.

“What about . . . the Lord?” Vortex murmured into First Aid’s neck.

“Just shut up and dance.”

The pair easily could have spent the rest of the evening lost in each other’s embrace, but it was not to be.  One moment, First Aid and Vortex were dancing – or rather, they were a tangle of flailing limbs and gyrating motions, the next moment, Brawl, clumsy from the unfamiliar music and maybe too much engex, fell over, right onto Beachcomber and Seaspray, forcing the room into a series of accusative shouts and pained yowling. 

Brawl wasn’t the only troublemaker, however.  Tracks had sat down in a corner, and was bawling to Blaster about, as best as First Aid could tell, the beauty of the music.  Sandstorm was making out with (who was that?  Octane?) right in the middle of the dance floor.  Rumble and Frenzy had started brawling by the now-unattended sound system; one of them tripped over some wires, bringing the whole thing down on top of them (Soundwave would  _ not _ be pleased).  Sideswipe had passed out in the punch bowl.  And  _ someone _ had pulled the fire alarm, causing the building’s automatic sprinkler system to kick in, raining water down on the partygoers.  And those were just the major culprits.

If First Aid had to guess, he’d say that everyone was acting incredibly drunk – no way had they  _ all  _ gotten so wrecked on the engex the venue was providing.  Cascadia should have been barely able to generate a smidgen of charge in a Speedster; it would have been completely unaffected to affect a mech of Brawl’s size.  There was almost certainly some foul play involved in the fiasco, and as a member of the security team, it was up to First Aid to investigate – also, poor Sideswipe probably needed some medical attention.  He excused himself from Vortex, and scurried back to his station to investigate.

“Sleeping with the enemy now, are ya?”

“Not now, Blades,” First Aid hissed, running a diagnostic on Sideswipe, before shifting him to a more comfortable position. 

“So, ah, what’s wrong with him?  He gonna be alright?”

It was as he’d suspected.  Sideswipe’s tanks were filled, not with Cascadia 05, but Nightmare Fuel.  A second check revealed that the tubes feeding the engex keg had been severed, and a new set of tubes had been patched in, leading underneath the table, where indeed, a cannister of the suspected fuel lay in wait. 

“Did  _ you _ do this?” First Aid asked, recalling their earlier conversation.

“What?  No!  Why would I spike the engex?  I’m an Autobot too, y’know.”

First Aid rolled his eyes.  “One: Autobot and Decepticon don’t mean anything anymore, in case you’d forgotten, and two: you were talking about wanting to do just this, only like, a half hour ago.”

Blades’s rotors began bouncing up and down in vehement denial.  “It wasn’t me!  I’m bored, but I’m not crazy.”

“Well, what about Whirl?  You said Whirl was the one who brought it up?”

Blue optics narrowed; Blades was not a happy camper right now.  “Come on, if you’re gonna blame every Rotary you know, why not start with your new boyfriend?”

_ Sweet Primus.   _

Admittedly, he had no evidence, but he’d run into Vortex at the refreshments table.  Who knew what he’d been up to before drawing First Aid’s attention.  And he’d been flirting his way around the room all night; there was no reason for him to pay First Aid any special attention, unless he was trying to distract from some very recent misdeeds . . . 

“Eh,” First Aid sighed, “You’re probably right.”

“I am?” Blades sputtered.  He’d obviously been gearing up for a verbal spat, but here was First Aid, already relenting.  How boring it must have been.  

First Aid, in response transformed to alt mode.  “Yup, now help me load this poor sap up, and I’ll get him somewhere he can sleep off the charge.”

Blades obliged, but he remained confused all the way out.  “What, you’re not gonna defend him?  You two looked awfully cozy back there.”

“We did, didn’t we?” First Aid laughed.  “But it was just a fling - a one-time thing.  And I won’t deny I had fun, but it’s done.  And that’s all there is to it.”  

With that said, he and Blades hauled poor Sideswipe off to the medical tent.  From there, it was back to the party - there was cleanup to run, spats to break up, and Decepticons to shoo off.  But all-in-all, First Aid didn’t regret the night.  Sure, there were a few minor injuries, but in the end, no one had  _ really  _ gotten hurt, which, for an event hosting both Autobots and Decepticons, was a feat in and of itself.  Besides, the engex fiasco had done a nice job of bringing a little entertainment to the evening, and truth be told, dancing with Vortex had made all of the night’s suffering more than worth it.  In fact, he was quite looking forward to the next celebration Cybertron planned, if only so he could spend the night with a certain mischievous Rotary once again.


End file.
